


bruises on my knees for you

by nutriscii



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: (bc it's eliott and lucas so ofc), Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Gang AU, Graffiti, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22667305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutriscii/pseuds/nutriscii
Summary: He doesn’t talk to people in the street. Apparently, though, he makes an exception for that one guy who’s currently busy vandalizing the building next door.or; strangers to lovers AU, where Eliott wants to make a difference even if it’s illegal, and Lucas is desperately bored with his life.
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 11
Kudos: 71





	bruises on my knees for you

**Author's Note:**

> i've been thinking about this fic since Eliott simultaneously brought everyone to that warehouse and became the Dad Friend, so i hope you'll like it and have as much fun with grumpy Lucas as i have writing him 💗🤟🏻
> 
> (the title is from Bad Guy by Billie Eilish)

**DIMANCHE 23:11**

The truth is, he doesn’t talk to people in the street. That’s just not something he does. Beyond something all kids in the world are (or should be) taught not to do, talking to strangers is just profoundly time-consuming and boring to the last degree. Paris is full of tourists, full of people asking things and full of pickpockets on the loose, of clipboard scams trying to get your attention and of real clipboard freaks bossing you around to save the environment, help a local vegan group to get recognition or to save fucking baby penguins and whatnot.

At best, talking to strangers is just a massive waste of time. At worst, it’s a fucking nightmare.

But one would argue it’s not a usual evening either, so it’s not really like he’s expecting things to go the way they usually do. It has stopped being a regular night when, a week ago, his dad has called him to invite him over for dinner.

“What happened to the three-week notice?” Lucas snickered over the phone, because really, what kind of father would bother calling a week in advance for a _family dinner_? Well, his dad. The kind who was so busy he could never free two hours of his time for a movie night when he was a kid but who apparently has plenty of time now for his step-sisters and his new wife.

“I’m just calling in advance to make sure my son remembers not to make plans,” his dad sighed heavily, and Lucas almost replied that his son would not need to make (up) plans to avoid dinner with him if his son’s dad wasn’t so prone on forgetting the basic understanding of parenthood, but he bit his tongue and promised.

It’s not that he doesn’t get along with him per se. It just got tricky when his parents got divorced. And, well, when he came out. When ‘adjusting’ means that your very own father is considering whether or not he _can_ still love you and whether or not there’s a limit to his unconditional support, you know there’s something that will never be quite the same again, and family dinners tend to be one of those things you cross off the list. To some extent he knows he should be happy they’re talking again, that his dad sometimes pushes for him to get dinner with him, but it feels like he’s trying so hard to make a point that it generally gets to his nerves.

He’s walking home when it happens. Barely past eleven, after he insisted on taking the bus instead of letting his dad call an Uber for him, because 1) he’s totally able to do that by himself, and 2) he didn’t want to wait twenty more minutes for the car to arrive. Don’t get him wrong, it’s not that bad of a situation either. There’s worse than having dinner in the good side of the 16e, and there’s far worse company than his stepmother Graziella, it’s just that-

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”, he blurts out, eyes wide.

It’s probably not something he should have done, but he doesn’t really know what he should be doing either. What’s the rule when it’s late at night, that you’re in the street, and that you stumble on some asshole busy spray-painting the building right next door? If there’s a set of rules for that particular kind of situation he’s more than willing to have them laid out for him right now. The person turns around in a rustle of clothes and stares down at him, from his spot on the rooftop of the two-story building separating two apartment complexes. He can’t tell if it’s a girl or a guy, courtesy to their mainly black attire covering any visible part of their body including their head, with a hood pulled up all the way to their eyes and a mask covering most of their face — until they talk.

“Are you a cop or something?”, a guy’s voice echoes in the empty street, muffled by the mask.

Lucas blinks, and the step he takes back to get a better view causes his back to crash into a parking ban sign he forgot was there at all. “What? No!”

“Good.”

And then he turns around and goes back to… doing his fucking thing. Lucas is still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, too dumbfounded to do anything other than blinking for five solid seconds.

Did he just-

Is he _literally_ -

The quiet hissing of a spray can seems to be laughing right in his face.

“I’m fucking serious,” he calls out again, “stop that right the fuck now!”

“Can you shut the fuck up?” the guys hisses from behind his mask, pointedly staring down at him. “Are you trying to wake everyone or what?”

Lucas’ eyes widen. “ _Yes_ ,” he huffs incredulously, “I’m _serious_!”

The guy sighs heavily and stands up from where he was crouching down. “Or what?” he snaps in annoyance, and what fucking business does he even have being _annoyed_?, “you’re gonna climb over here, shortcake?”

 _Shortcake_.

He’s going to fucking murder him. He’s gonna throw him off that fucking rooftop, that’s it. Lucas immediately strides to the apartment complex on the left and hastily unlocks the door to the lobby, rushing past the elevator to climb the flights of stairs as fast as he can.

 _Shortcake_. Fucking _shortcake_.

He’s not _short_ , okay? He’s not the tallest, but he’s _not_ vertically challenged, tall guys shouldn’t even be a fucking thing if it weren’t for dumb virility crises and shitty values from even shittier sports like _basketball_. He runs through his living-room, waltzing in his bedroom without even caring that he’s literally walking on dirty laundry.

 _And there is the fucker_. He still hasn’t budged, Lucas can see him through the window of his bedroom. The asshole is still crouching down, busy spray-painting, and Lucas takes a sick pleasure in seeing him losing his balance and nearly falling on his ass when he chucks open the window without ceremony.

“Not feeling so cocky anymore, uh?”, he calls out triumphantly when the guy throws a glance behind his shoulder.

“Why?,” he sneers. “Cause you’re one of the 2 million people living in this town?”

Lucas glares at him, even if the guy can’t see it because it’s dark and because he’s standing probably too far away, but that’s the thought that _matters_. “I’m fucking serious, get the fuck off here or I’m calling the cops,” he spits out, already fumbling for his phone.

He’s mostly bluffing. It’s late and he doesn’t really give too much of a damn to call them, he just wants the fucker to leave.

“If you’d left me the fuck alone I’d already be done by now,” the guy has the audacity to grumble, turning one more time his back on him to go back to his fucking wall.

This is a nightmare. It’s not the first time this shit wall got spray-painted over, it’s actually the third time it happens in the three years Lucas has lived here, and if the first two times he wasn’t even in town at the time, it didn’t stop the owner of the building the fucker is currently busy vandalizing from pestering him because ‘your windows are literally facing that wall, Mr. Lallemant!’.

It’s like being in fucking high school except that this time there’s no reason whatsoever for anyone to yell at him.

And the cherry on top?

_That wall got renovated two weeks ago._

“That’s the point!” Lucas nearly yells in plain frustration. “I don’t want you to finish this! It’s fucking ugly and I’m the one people come at when shit like this fucking happens because it’s literally outside my window!” Another hissing from the spray can and not a single glance thrown in his direction, and it gets on his fucking nerves. “Oh now you’re just fucking _ignoring me_?”

There’s another sigh from behind the mask. The guy grabs a black backpack leaning against the wall that Lucas hadn’t even noticed before, shoving a spray can inside, and a metallic sound seems to indicate that this guy, _this fucking guy_ most definitely didn’t decide to buy a stupid spray can and to use it on a spur of the moment. He picks up another one from those aligned at the foot of the wall and shoves it in the backpack as well.

“Isn’t it past your bed-time anyway?”, he retorts, unfazed.

Lucas stares at him, with what he hopes is enough resentment to convey his personal feelings at the moment. It would be so fucking easy to just climb over the railing and step on the rooftop and, oh! so easily push him off the edge. It wouldn’t be enough to kill him, but maybe a broken leg or two would be enough to teach him how to respect people.

The guy zips his backpack up and throws it over his shoulders, probably very proud of himself and his ‘oh I’m a fucking street artist look at me’ bullshit that _he_ is going to have to stare the fuck at for weeks, months, _years_ on-

“I hope you fucking break your neck before the cops arrive,” Lucas grits out, and it’s stupid because that fucker _knows_ he didn’t even call, but he just hates the idea of him having the final word. It just irks him, and with a last murderous look the guy doesn’t even bother acknowledging, he slams the window shut and pulls the curtains sharply.

**LUNDI 08:27**

The mural is still there when he wakes up the next morning.

Honestly, he _should_ have pushed the guy off the rooftop when he had the chance. As soon as he pulls the curtains open, all he’s left to stare at is that disgrace on the wall, only a dozen meters away. A dark, blueish mess in shape of a fucking hell hole — which is strangely fitting if you ask him, considering the fucker who did that was nothing short of a goddamn demon himself. It takes Lucas a good minute of squinting to start figuring out what it is, and obviously it’s because it’s _ugly_ , and not just because he’s barely awake.

What he thought looked strikingly like the scar left on a building by a wrecking-ball is actually the pupil of a giant-ass eye.

Yes. An _eye_.

Very Big Brother.

Very fucking creepy.

A dark-blue pupil, framed with thick eyelashes, and frankly, Lucas would have been fine without the impression it’s following him every fucking where in his flat. Who even draws a fucking eye _alone_? Where’s the head? Where’s the _other_ eye?

What is the _fucking plan?_

“Well, it’s definitely something,” Arthur observes when he shoves a picture of the horrendous painting right under his nose, while they’re waiting in line to get their coffee fix. The only thing this shit on the wall has accomplished so far is to give Lucas enough resentment to leave his home.

He takes his phone away and stares some more at the picture with a disgusted wrinkle of his nose. “It’s ugly.” They take a step forward when two costumers leave with their orders at the front of the line.

“It’s an artistic choice, that’s for sure.”

“It’s a fucking _disgrace_.”

Arthur rolls his eyes with a snort, like the fucking best friend he’s _not_. “Says the one who let him do it.”

“I didn’t _let him do it_ ,” Lucas snaps, locking his phone and shoving it in the deep end of his pocket with a pointed glare. “I tried to get him to stop.”

They take another step forward. Maybe they’ll manage to get coffee before the clock hits 9, he thinks darkly. Although that would make a good excuse to be late. And since being late is absolutely rude, and that he’s been raised to be polite, being late is a no-go and that means he can just go back home and sleep until noon. _If_ he manages to sleep. The thought of that giant-ass eye right next to his apartment is going to give him fucking nightmares, he can feel it.

Arthur gives him another look and _could he stop_ for one fucking second to be like that? It’s starting to get on his nerves. “Did it work?”

“He just laughed right in my face.”

“Ah, wow. Truly astonishing indeed.” Lucas glares fucking daggers at him, but he’s met Arthur since that blissful time they were still believing Santa existed, and apparently he doesn’t even have the decency to look at him anymore when he insults him. Arthur eventually looks up from his phone. “I mean, you’re so tall and so muscular, a real wonder why he didn’t get the memo.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lucas grits out, “you’re literally _five_ centimeters taller, stop flexing.”

“This is five centimeters of pure excellence,” Arthur retorts, and he gives him that shit-eating grin that he’s always had when he’s sure there are way too many people around them for Lucas to start throwing hands. “I hope he was hot at least because, _man_ it catches the eye.”

That’s it, there’s gonna be hell to pay, he decides as Arthur goes on to place his order once the barista has offered them a polite smile. His best friend will regret the day he’s decided that sarcasm would be the hill he wanted to die on. His gaze lands on the barista while she picks up a take-out cup from the pile.

He frowns. “You’re going?”

He can’t believe _his best friend_ has the nerve to take away the only kind of consistency he’s had in his life lately. They come here to get coffee, because it’s halfway between their schools — well, practically, because at least Arthur _enjoys_ what he’s doing so it’s only fair that Lucas gets the least amount of travel to make it there, right? —, and they diss about the lame people they know, generally ending up bitching about their respective dads, whose decades-long friendship is apparently tied to their shared assholeness. _This_ is the plan. What is he supposed to do now? He shouldn’t have left his bed. Only crappy things happen when he leaves his bed.

Arthur shrugs, grabbing his ready-to-go cup when the barista sets it on the counter and pushes it in his direction. “Bro it’s probably alien to you but I’m intending to graduate at some point in my life. You know that thing you’ve given up on?”

Well that’s just plain fucking rude. Mister I-failed-PACES-because-i-couldn’t-tell-my-dad has apparently a serious case of short-term memory loss, otherwise he’d be able to remember that they spent the better part of the last semester the previous year ditching together. But now that he’s changed his major everything is suddenly _oh so great_ and _oh so interesting_.

Honestly? He can’t relate.

“I haven’t _given up_ ,” he grumbles. So what if his attendance records aren’t the best? There are more important things to do out there than waking up at a godforsaken hour and drag himself across town just to hear about physics in English. _On a fucking Monday morning_. The barista glances pointedly in his direction. “I’ll take mine black. No sugar. Take-out apparently,” he mutters, side-eyeing Arthur, who seems too busy by his phone content to notice.

“Remind me again how many times you ditched, last week alone?”

“I had the flu,” Lucas counters haughtily.

“That’s not the flu, that’s hibernation,” Arthur rolls his eyes. He takes a sip from his coffee, and gives him a pat in the back. “Anyway, I gotta go. Remember, you’ve got to look both ways before crossing the street,” he throws on his way out.

All he gets in response is a ‘fucker’ grumbled under Lucas’ breath.

**LUNDI 21:17**

It’s not that he’s _paranoid_.

He doesn’t really startle when someone rushes past him. He doesn’t really shy away from making eye-contact if someone slams into his shoulder in the street. And if last Sunday was any proof, he’s apparently not shy either when he’s trying to reason with a very unreasonable dumbass in the street.

It’s just that- okay, he’s not really comfortable when it’s dark.

He hates it when it’s night time and that his flat is dark as a pit, but apparently there’s so much light he can use at the same time, without a whole bunch of polar bears drowning in the Antarctic because of climate change. So yeah. He tries to be an adult about it, it’s just not the easiest thing. Especially when he’s just chilling on his own, busy watching Netflix, and that a movement outside of his window brutally stirs his attention away from his episode of _La Casa de Papel_. He tenses on the couch, nearly dropping the bag of Haribo he’s been pensively munching on for the better part of the past hour, and tries to peer outside. Which is probably the dumbest idea considering that 1) he’s closed the curtains this morning to avoid staring at that giant eye, and 2) all he’s seeing in the tiny space left by the curtains is his very own, very tousled reflection. Not sexy but also not the point.

He sets the bag of candies on the coffee table after muting the sound of the tv, and pads closer to his living-room window — only to let out the heaviest sigh as he immediately reaches out to swing it open, dramatically pulling the curtains open at the same time.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” is the first thing he says, annoyance dripping through every word as the fucking moron startles on the rooftop.

Same type of clothing, same stupid mask, same backpack. Same ugly-ass eye on the wall, for that matter. “You again, uh,” the dumbass in black throws dismissively, crouching down next to his backpack, then he tosses a spray can in the air and catches it easily. Oh, good, now he’s being cocky. _Great._

“I _live_ here, asshole, of course I’m here,” Lucas bites back, folding his arms onto his chest. “I thought you were done with your ugly-ass mural.”

Frankly he’s been more than nice so far, the goddamn Oscar of the biggest heart of gold, A-Grade Asshole should really stop before his luck runs out. But instead of keeping a low profile, the guy stands up and points out at the wall from his spray can. “So you literally never realized that yellow wasn’t on-brand with the rest?”

Lucas squints a little, despite his best efforts to look like he doesn’t care. Oh. Okay. Now he sees it. There’s a yellow thing sprayed over the eye. It looks vaguely like a cross, but he’s not entirely sure there’s not something scribbled here.

Wait a fucking minute.

Does that mean someone _else_ came here? What the fuck is wrong with people, did they all collectively decide to forego paper sheets and decided that spray-painting on _walls_ was the easiest way to express creativity? Did _he,_ simple human being _,_ hallucinate paper at all? Did he enter a parallel universe where it’s become _legal_? He’s practically sure none of the above are a thing. Which is starting to make the first question even more urgent — how many fucking people think they can come up here?

“I’m not spending all day long staring at this monstrosity,” he scoffs.

The guy huffs, and it comes out muffled by his stupid mask. “So you’re just going to annoy the shit out of me until I leave again?”

Despite himself he leans forward, resting his forearm against the window frame. “Excuse me, but is me trying to knock some sense into your head an _inconvenience_? I’m really, _really_ sorry, my most sincere apologies.”

The guy is busy doing whatever illegal business he’s _once again_ busy doing, and Lucas well and truly thinks he’s literally ignoring him until, amidst the hissing sounds of his spray cans, he hears a vaguely muttered: “Jesus, how much of a fucking drama queen can you be.”

 _Why am I even bothering?_ Whatever.

He reclines away from the window frame, and this time he doesn’t even bother throwing one last murderous comeback. Why would he try? A-Grade asshole probably has a life expectancy of roughly six months — that’s what happens to morons who like to run on fucking rooftops, or so he heard.

And if, _if_ it happens on the rooftop next to Lucas’ flat, and that by mistake he happens to have accidentally spilled something particularly slippery, well, that would be very, _very_ sad, he decides as he slams the window shut without ceremony.

He directly goes to the kitchen, the only room with a view on the street and not on the rooftop, and stands there for a good minute, trying to decipher what to do. He can’t _just_ go back to watch Netflix like nothing happened, that’s not how his brain works. He fidgets on his own, grumpily staring at the clock on his oven.

Shower.

Yes. Shower sounds good, he decides. Shower sounds _heaven_.

Maybe he’ll stay there until the hot water runs out, and hopefully by that time his flat will have become invader-free. Funny thing that the only case of an invasion he’d have to report so far is a giant dumbass busy vandalizing the building next door, and not plain, boring beetles _._ He’s motioning to leave the kitchen when his eyes catch sight of the apartment on his level, right across the street. There’s a blonde woman standing by the window, phone pressed to her ear as she keeps glancing outside insistently, and there’s only one thing she could be staring at like that, Lucas is absolutely, a hundred percent sure of that — an asshole standing on rooftop busy vandalizing a wall in the street, for instance.

God. _Don’t get involved_.

But at the same time if the cops come, they’ll invariably end up barging here as well. And they will bother _him_ with 256325 questions. And he’s not doing that, no way. He’s already starting to feel the headache creeping up, he can’t begin to imagine what it’s gonna be like if four cops decide to drop by.

 _I hate everyone_.

He better be getting a reward in another life, because frankly that’s typical Nobel Peace Prize behavior right there, he thinks darkly as he steps into his bedroom and opens the window with a deep, long sigh. “The neighbors across the street are calling the cops,” he calls out, already bored.

The guy on the rooftop spins around, looking more surprised that he probably would have wanted, Lucas notices. Well, well, well. Doesn’t seem so cocky anymore, he nearly sneers.

“What?”

Lucas doesn’t even bother repeating, simply risking an arm outside and pointing across the street. The guy follows the gesture and immediately starts pestering behind his mask, muttering a string of ‘shit’, as he brutally shoves the spray can he’s been using in his backpack.

For a moment Lucas is too absorbed by the sick satisfaction he gets from seeing him freak out to realize what is happening, and it’s only when the guy hisses a “Move!” that Lucas understands that _holy fucking shit he’s running and-_

He barely has the time to take a step to the side that the guy literally tosses his backpack into his bedroom, then himself, his feet hitting the ground with a thud that echoes into Lucas’ ears. “Did you just- _are you fucking serious now_?” Lucas exclaims, heart beating, when the guy immediately proceeds to shut the window. “Do you realize you’re breaking into my apartment or you just literally _don’t give a shit?_ ”

The guy barely gives him a look, ignoring him in favor of picking up his backpack — which honestly is kinda _rude_ considering he’s pretty sure he just got a minor heart-attack. He has the audacity to _shrug_. “I’m not breaking in because you were holding the window open the whole time.”

There’s so much no-shit-given energy radiating from him that it manages to leave Lucas gaping — for a second, really. Of course it’s got nothing to do with the way he’s staring at him, because, again, people look people in the eye when they _talk_ , but all things considered there’s a very particular type of eyes that should _not_ be allowed to-

“You’re unbelievable,” he hears himself saying, shaking his head slowly.

“Cool.” He’s not sure, but he thinks A-Grade asshole smirks behind his stupid mask, and he would have been fine without that motherfucking _eyebrow raise_. His eyes move a centimeter away, and Lucas has the brilliant idea to try and follow where they’re landing. Dirty laundry from the past week (and maybe the one before, now that he thinks about it) is covering the floor. Which shouldn’t be a problem, because no one was supposed to come here, but apparently the world has fucking other plans for him, and they now include murdering the stranger who broke into his flat.

Hear him out, it’s _his_ business if he sometimes wears bright yellow briefs with smiley faces on them when he’s late on his laundry schedule. _His_ fucking business. No one else has to know. No one _deserves_ to know. Especially not Mr-Giant-Ass-Eye. But now they’re literally at a fucking stranger’s feet and Lucas is starting to feel really, really hot, despite his best efforts to look scary and as threatening as possible.

At first the guy doesn’t say anything, his hand tightening around the strap of his backpack, and for a second Lucas thinks he finally _finally_ learned how implicit rules, such as not mentioning someone else’s underwear, can be relevant on a day-to-day basis to lead a normal life. But then his eyes crinkle, and Lucas is overwhelmed by a very strong urge to pull that mask down and shove it down his throat, long before he even says-

“Love the underwear.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading 🤟🏻✌🏻


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